


All the Things so Bittersweet

by Sena



Series: Alera [2]
Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Coming of Age, Friendship, Other, Teenagers, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 15:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sena/pseuds/Sena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Master is dead, and Brendon's not sorry. He's trying to fit in at his new master's house, now, but he doesn't know the rules and doesn't know what the punishments are for breaking them. He makes himself as unobtrusive as possible, but the master's favorite boy pays attention to him, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Things so Bittersweet

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the aftermath, but there are mentions and hints of previous underage non-con and/or dub-con, slavery, physical, sexual, and psychological abuse.

The boy brought Brendon food every night. In the mornings Brendon was up early enough to sneak into the kitchen, to wait and hold his breath and disguise himself against the wooden walls. Brendon was good at hiding, could do it better than anybody else he'd ever known. Master hadn't liked Brendon to hide. Master had forbidden Brendon to hide. But Brendon had watched Master die, had felt the heat of Master's blood splash against him as one of the men had ripped open Master's stomach with his sword.

Brendon liked to think about Master being dead. Brendon liked to remember what it looked like, the snow melting around him as he bled. Knowing that Master was dead was better than anything Brendon had ever known in his entire life.

That wasn't entirely true. Brendon suspected that he'd had a life without any masters at all, once, and that it had been the best thing he'd ever known. It hurt to remember it, though. It hurt in a different way than he was used to. It hurt in his chest and seeped through his blood and unlike the other hurts that made him want to fight, it made him want to give up. It hurt to remember, so he didn't.

In the mornings Brendon was awake with the sun, and he could go anywhere he wanted, could hide anywhere, the plants and the shade bending to help him, to hide him away from the new master's eyes.

In the mornings Brendon disguised himself and slipped into the new master's house, into the kitchen, and he held his breath and waited for the cook's back to be turned and he snatched up hot sausages right out of the pan or rolls fresh from the oven, and then he slipped out and hurried away and hid in the trees and feasted.

When the master and the others rose, Brendon stopped hiding. He made himself useful. He desperately tended vines and plants, coaxed the orchards into bearing more fruit. He didn't ever hide, then, wanted the new master to see him working hard, being useful outside in the sun. He wanted to be useful outside, because he hated it inside, hated the uses his masters had put him to once he was trapped inside and the doors were locked.

And even more than being taken inside, he dreaded being sold. The new master had never struck him, not even once. Brendon had never seen the new master strike any of his slaves. There wasn't even a lashing post that Brendon had seen, though he supposed it could have been inside. Maybe the new master liked to do his whipping inside with the doors locked for his own pleasure instead of outside for everyone to see and fear.

All the more reason for Brendon to hide himself well, to snatch food and eat it where no one could see, to stay out of the house at all costs.

At night, though, there were too many people around for Brendon to snatch up dinner. His veils were good, but even the best veil wouldn't keep someone from bumping into him. At night all of the new master's slaves gathered together to eat, and Brendon could rarely find a way through the crowd unnoticed.

At first he had simply hidden up in the hayloft of the barn, listening to the songs and the laughter coming from the house's great hall. He'd never known slaves to sing like that before. He liked to listen to it, would close his eyes and press his back into a warm, dark corner, and the songs and laughter and happy shouts were almost enough to distract him from how hungry he was, how hungry he'd be until the next morning when he could steal food again.

Then, one night, the boy had climbed up into the hayloft with a bowl of food. Brendon had quickly veiled himself against the hay and the wooden walls, furiously wishing the boy would go somewhere else. The hayloft was Brendon's hiding spot. He even slept there most nights, thought not always, not when he felt like maybe he hadn't been useful enough during the day, not when he was afraid the new master would seize him in his sleep and drag him inside.

"You shouldn't go without dinner," the boy said, looking in Brendon's direction, but not right at him. Though he knew Brendon was in the loft, he didn't know exactly where he was, couldn't see through his veil. "It's just porridge tonight, but I put honey and milk on it for you. And, oh, there are cherries." He pulled a handful of the fruit out of one his pockets and set it on the hay next to the bowl of porridge. "Mother says you're a natural in the orchard, says she's never seen the cherries look so good."

Brendon didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't want to make any sound that would give away his location. It wasn't that he didn't like the boy, he just didn't want to reveal himself.

The boy waited a moment, then sighed and said. "Okay, then. Well. You should eat."

Brendon waited at least ten minutes after the boy had gone to slowly creep forward, still veiled, and sniff at the bowl of porridge. He knew the smell of hollybells and their narcotic extract, afrodin, could identify it immediately, and it wasn't there. He picked up the bowl and the cherries and scooted back to his spot in the corner. He took a tentative bite of the porridge. It wasn't plain, tasteless porridge, no matter what the boy had said; it was delicious, with nuts and dried fruit in it along with the oats, and though he tried to pace himself, Brendon ended up eating it greedily. The cherries were tart-sweet and cool on his tongue.

He was gone from the hayloft by the time the boy returned, but he'd chosen a spot near the smithy where he could see the boy enter the barn, then return a moment later with the empty bowl and spoon. The boy stopped halfway back to the house, turned and gazed at the barn for a long time before heading back inside.

He brought food regularly at night after that. He always said things like, "It's only stew tonight," or, "it's just vegetables with a little meat." He said it like he was apologizing. Brendon wondered if he'd ever gone without food for days, wondered if he'd ever lived on wheat mash for months at a time. Brendon doubted it, and not just because the boy was slightly plump. It didn't seem that anyone at the new master's house ever went without food as a punishment.

The boy was always watching him. He seemed to be the master's favorite, and Brendon wondered what sorts of things the boy was reporting back. It made him nervous, not knowing what he was supposed to do, not knowing if he was supposed to take the food or refuse it, if he was supposed to speak or stay silent. He wished the master would make his whims better known. He wished he knew what the punishment would be if he did something wrong.

One night the boy brought him food and sat up there with a bowl of his own and they ate together, and Brendon was halfway finished eating before he remembered that he hadn't even bothered to veil himself. He looked at the boy for a long time, and the boy glanced over at him but didn't say anything, just kept eating.

When they were both finished, the boy said, "You can have seconds if you want. Mother says you need fattening up."

Brendon's eyes went wide. "Are they going to _eat_ us?"

The boy looked at him and then laughed. "What? No!" He was still laughing.

"Why fat, then?" Brendon asked. He frowned. "They'll eat you first."

The boy laughed again and poked at his belly. "Probably. But nobody's going to eat anybody. Crows, that's disgusting. Who's ever heard of such a thing?" He stopped laughing, then, and looked at Brendon sadly. "Have...have _you_ heard of such a thing? I know your life wasn't, hasn't been, I saw. When I took the collar off. I saw what happened to you. A lot of it. I remember the things you went through." He sighed and rubbed at his forehead and he looked miserable "I didn't know people could hurt others like that."

Brendon didn't know what to say, so he stayed silent. Unless he was asked a direct question, he'd found that silence was always the safest option.

"That's why you're always hiding, isn't it?" the boy asked softly. "Because you think somebody's going to hurt you. But you're safe here."

Brendon looked down at his empty bowl.

"Nobody gets raped here," the boy told him. "Nobody gets beaten."

"Why?" the question was out before Brendon could stop it. He bit his lip. He hadn't meant to talk back.

"Because my father wouldn't stand for it," the boy said firmly. He didn't sound angry, just confident. "No one here would stand for it. You were treated badly at Durandholt, so badly I don't know if there are words for it. And you were treated badly for so long that maybe you started to think that was normal, but it's not. This is normal. Life here is normal, the way it's supposed to be."

Brendon scraped the bottom of his bowl with his spoon and licked it clean. He wondered what would really happen if he went to get seconds. He decided he didn't want to find out.

There were puppies in the barn. Brendon remembered the night they were born, just after he'd arrived at the new master's steadholt. He remembered waking up in the hay loft and hearing soft mewls, climbing down to investigate and finding one of the huge white dogs nosing at a litter full of new babies, licking them clean.

The puppies were old enough and Brendon was quiet enough and familiar enough that the mother dog let him play with them. They had been growing quickly, and Brendon laughed and wrestled one of the puppies to the ground with his hands, letting it up quickly so it could jump and pounce.

"I'm glad you get on well with dogs," said a low voice behind him. Brendon closed his eyes and didn't move. He was getting so careless, letting the master sneak up on him like that. He should have stayed silent and alone in the hayloft. He should have stayed veiled.

"That one's going to head up to the pastures tomorrow with the other dogs," said the master. "You'll go with Spencer, learn the ropes."

"Yes, sir," Brendon whispered, throat scratchy and completely dry. He waited for the master to leave, but he didn't, not right away. He put his hand on Brendon's head, gently. He wasn't trying to cause pain. He wasn't trying to seduce. He just touched the top of Brendon's head, mussed his hair, and then he was gone. Brendon blinked in confusion for a moment, until the puppy started to bite at him and he remembered to yank his hand away.

The boy, Spencer, set off early every morning with the sheep. When Brendon slipped into the kitchen, Spencer was already there, and he handed Brendon a satchel and said, "Come on."

Brendon looked over his shoulder longingly at the bacon frying on the stove, but he turned away from it and followed Spencer to the sheep pen. The dogs were there already, anxious to get started, and they bayed gleefully as Spencer opened the wide, swinging gate to let the sheep free.

Spencer called to the dogs as they walked along behind the herd. There were smaller brown dogs that heeded Spencer's commands, running fast and crowding the sheep in the right directions. There were also large white dogs, like the puppies in the barn, and though they ran ahead of and behind the sheep, they didn't herd them.

"It's important to keep a tally," Spencer told Brendon as they walked along in the cool damp of the morning. "Are you hungry?"

Brendon shrugged and kept his head down. He'd gone without food before.

"Ilaria makes the best meat pies," Spencer told him, handing him a small bundle wrapped in waxed cloth. It was warm to the touch, and Brendon could smell bacon and spices. He waited until Spencer had taken three bites before starting on his own.

Spencer was wearing something Brendon had never seen before, a metal shape, roughly triangular, hanging around his neck on a leather cord. Brendon wondered what it meant, wondered if it was a slave necklace similar to the collar he'd once had to wear.

"Anyway," Spencer said, licking meat juices off his thumb. "It's important to keep a tally. Before we left, I marked down which flock we were taking out. Sheep are particular, and each flock knows its own pasture, feels comfortable there. By marking down that I'm taking Hoot's flock, that's him right there," Spencer pointed out a huge ram with large, curling horns, "they know I'm taking them south up into the hills."

Brendon looked up at the rugged, green hills in front of them, still dappled in mist, cut through with rough creeks and dark rock.

"This is probably the easiest flock to watch," Spencer told him. "We don't have to take them through any forest, so they won't get lost as easily." He lifted the metal triangle to his lips and when he blew into it, Brendon realized it was a whistle. Two soft tones signaled the dogs, who circled around and guided the sheep to the left. It made sense, the clear tone of the whistle carrying better than any voice could.

"And Hoot's a good ram," he continued. "He won't try to gore you or anything, not like Brazos. Crows. You'd think he was half mad, the way he runs at you. But you won't take Brazos' flock out for a while, probably not until next summer at least. Just remember not to turn your back on him."

Spencer chattered on as they walked, occasionally signaling the herding dogs with whistles or hand signals. They finally reached a dark green pasture surrounded by rocky cliffs on two sides, a cold, rough stream on the third.

"Now we've got most of the day free," Spencer told him. "We have to stay within earshot of the herd so we can come if the dogs raise the alarm, but other than that our time's our own. In the summer it's nice to swim, but it's too cold for that, now. The stream's never warm, anyway, it comes straight down from the mountains, but in the summer it's kind of nice. Can you carve?"

Brendon blinked at him.

Spencer sighed. "You know, I wouldn't have to talk so much if you'd just answer me sometimes."

Brendon shook his head. "I don't know how," he admitted. He'd never been allowed to handle tools.

"I'll show you. It gets really boring up here if you don't have anything to do, and there are only so many rabbits you can hunt before you've got too many to fit on a line. Can you hunt with a sling?"

Brendon shook his head again. "No." He felt like he was admitting that he was useless, but Spencer had ordered him to answer his questions, and Brendon was too afraid of being caught in a lie. Master had forbidden Brendon to lie, and the punishment for being caught at it had been severe. He shivered, thinking of the branks, thinking of the fire pressed to the soles of his feet.

"I'll show you how to do that, too. I didn't bring an extra for you today, though." He sat in a sunny spot on the edge of the pasture and gestured for Brendon to sit next to him. He unrolled a bundle he'd had in his pack and Brendon saw various knives and chisels, all with rounded, warm wooden handles. He handed Brendon a block of wood and one of the knives and said, "Okay, before you start cutting, you have to look at the grain..."

Brendon didn't know what he was making, but after half an hour or so of Spencer's patient instruction, he could at least carve off small flakes with a bit of control. It was calming, feeling the wood in his hands, coaxing it with the tools and with his wood fury, Silas, into something it hadn't been before. He looked up after a while and was surprised to see how far the sun had moved. What had begun as a rough hunk of wood had turned into a misshapen and crudely carved thing, roughly cup-shaped.

"You're good at that," Spencer told him.

Brendon eyed the intricately carved cup in Spencer's hands.

"I've been doing this for years," Spencer informed him. "Do you want bird or rabbit for lunch?"

"Um," said Brendon. "Either?"

Spencer smiled at him. "Up, then. We'll see how good a hand you are with the sling."

Brendon was not good with the sling and managed to use it to hit nothing but dirt, more dirt, the stream, and his own head. Spencer made him kneel down next to the stream and stick his forehead into the icy water so he could heal the gash just above Brendon's eyebrow.

Thankfully, Spencer was much better and took down several rabbits in a matter of minutes. Brendon had enough firecraft to ignite dry tinder, so he started up a small fire in the rock-ringed pit while Spencer cleaned the rabbit meat and skewered it on sticks for cooking.

They lazed on the grass after lunch. Brendon played with some of the dogs, then practiced more with the sling. By the time the sun was in the west, he'd managed to aim at and hit a large boulder more than once.

Neither one of them spoke on the slow walk back to the steadholt. Brendon tipped his face up to the sun and decided that he liked it there, that he liked the life he had with his new master. He hoped the master remained pleased with him, hoped he'd be able to take the sheep out with Spencer again, hoped he'd be allowed to really learn to carve.

They rounded the sheep into their pen just as dusk was beginning to fall, Spencer showing him where each herd belonged and how to count them.

"And then you make your tally, see?" Spencer made markings on the slate that Brendon didn't understand, but he nodded anyway. "That's it, really. It's not especially complicated, you just have to pay attention." He stopped at the well and pumped out cold, clean water into a bucket, then dipped wooden mug into it and drank deeply. He did it again and handed the mug to Brendon, and as Brendon drank, Spencer started to wash. He washed his hands and his arms, splashed water onto his face and grinned at Brendon before shaking his head quickly, sending water droplets flying. Brendon smiled back and followed Spencer's lead. It felt nice to wash after a day spent walking in the sun. The cold water felt amazing against his skin.

The bell rang signaling dinner, and Spencer started towards the steadholt. He stopped and turned towards Brendon. "Come on," he said.

Brendon didn't move. He hadn't been inside in months. He didn't want to go inside.

"Honestly, it's just dinner," Spencer told him. "I can keep bringing you bowls that are barely enough or you can come eat your fill at the table."

Brendon chewed on his lip. It didn't seem so bad, going inside. It didn't seem the same as going inside at Durandholt had been. He'd never heard laughter and songs from Durandholt's great hall. He took a deep breath and followed Spencer through the doors.

There were so many people inside. There were fury lamps lighting up all the dark corners and a fire to keep away the evening's chill. There were five or six long tables filled with people, with nearly everyone Brendon had ever seen at the new master's steadholt. He stepped just inside the door, then moved to the side to press his back against the wall. He didn't veil himself, but he was tempted.

Spencer sat at the closest table, across from a giant of a man. Brendon knew him as the metalcrafter whose sword work had been the end of his old master, Durand. He knew him as the blacksmith who had destroyed Brendon's collar. The man looked up at him and smiled, a friendly smile that Brendon wasn't sure how to return.

"Come on," Spencer said, gesturing for him to sit down on the bench next to him.

Brendon didn't want to sit. Brendon wanted to veil himself and turn and run and hide back in the barn, but he knew he couldn't. If he ran, he knew Spencer would come after him and drag him back, knew the metalcrafter would probably help. He took a deep breath and made himself walk toward the table, made himself sit.

He kept his head down, and was thankful that the only other people at their table were at the far end, talking amongst themselves instead of close and pressed up against him. When Spencer passed him a basket of bread, Brendon took the smallest piece and set it on the wooden plate in front of him. He eyed the butter in a dish near the metalcrafter's wine glass, but he didn't reach for it. He took a small bite of his bread instead. He didn't need butter, anyway.

Someone set a bowl of steaming potatoes on the table, and one of the people from the far end of the table slid a plate piled high with pieces of roast chicken towards him. Brendon passed on the plate without taking anything. He could eat bread and maybe some potatoes. He'd make sure that everyone saw he didn't need to eat much, could work hard and not be a burden when it came to food.

Spencer put two chicken thighs on Brendon's plate, then seemed to think about it and gave him a breast, too.

"I don't--" Brendon started.

"Tell him to eat, Zack," Spencer said to the metalcrafter.

"Eat," said the man in a low, stern voice.

"But I don't--"

"We don't get roast chicken often," Spencer told him. "You should enjoy it. It'll be months before we get it again."

"I don't need much to eat," Brendon protested.

"Which is probably why you're thin as a reed and half as heavy," said the metalcrafter. "Life on a steadholt's hard work. You need your strength. Eat." He didn't look like he was going to put up with any of Brendon's arguments, so Brendon ate.

Brendon ate the chicken, steaming hot and juicy and perfectly seasoned. He ate potatoes and bread and beans fresh from the garden. And when he thought he couldn't eat any more, he ate ripe strawberries drizzled with honey. The food and the hard day's walk and the spiced wine made him feel heavy and drowsy and warm.

Though the days were warm enough, the nights still held a chill, and when people started to gather around the fireplace, Brendon edged close. He still kept his distance, still kept his back to the wall, but he edged close enough to feel a little of the fire's heat.

The master's woman was plump and older than Brendon expected a favored female slave to be. She played the kithara well, and her voice was clear and pretty. Other voices joined in, and Brendon wanted to, but he didn't know the words. He didn't want to attract attention to himself, anyway.

He watched as Spencer tugged on the master's sleeve, watched the master grin and wrap one arm around Spencer's waist and pull him down to sit on the long, low bench near the fire. He watched Spencer lean his head against the master's shoulder, watched the way the master smiled at his woman, and Brendon understood.

They weren't slaves. None of them were slaves. They were free, and the master, Brendon's new master--he watched the way he spoke to Spencer and he knew the man wasn't his master at all. He was Spencer's father. The people weren't slaves, they were family.

Brendon turned and fled, ran as far as he could and as hard as he could, into the woods where no one could find him. He ran until he stumbled and he stayed where he was, in the dark on the forest floor, and he curled up as small as he could make himself and it hurt so much to remember.

He'd had a family, once. He'd eaten dinner with them. They hadn't had a large steadholt, just a small cottage and a little bit of land, but they'd eaten dinner together at night. Brendon had been so small that he'd barely reached the table. He remembered that a lot of times, he'd gotten to sit on his father's lap. He couldn't remember their faces. He couldn't remember their names, but he knew. He'd had sisters who'd sung songs to him and carried him in their arms. He'd had brothers who'd teased him and tickled him and carried him on their shoulders and he remembered feeling so tall when they did, so strong and so loved.

And he knew that they were gone. They were dead or enslaved, and he didn't know which of the two he wanted for them. He remembered a night of fires and screams and wanting his mother instead of the men who had thrown him into a cage and carted him away. He remembered one of his sisters had been there and he remembered holding tightly to one of her braids and wanting his mother, and he didn't remember much after that because that had been the end of his family.

The night grew colder, and still Brendon didn't move. He was shivering, and he knew it might get so cold that they'd get another frost that night, but he didn't want to move. He wanted to remember his mother's face. He wanted to remember his sisters' names.

He didn't hear the footsteps until they were so close he didn't have time to veil himself.

He took a deep breath. He didn't need to veil himself. He didn't need to run, not anymore.

"It's supposed to freeze tonight," Spencer said softly.

Brendon didn't respond.

Spencer sat next to him and draped his cloak over Brendon's body. "You're shivering."

"I had a family once," Brendon told him.

Spencer reached out and touched Brendon's shoulder. "I know. I remember."

"Do you remember their names? You have my memories. Do you remember their names?"

"It's all a jumble," Spencer told him. "It's not like normal memories. It's not like I have all of yours alongside all of mine. I just get flashes and feelings and I see things in my head that never happened to me."

"I can't remember their names."

Spencer sighed and he curled up on the ground next to Brendon, facing him. "Why do you sleep in the barn?" he asked.

Brendon closed his eyes. "I don't know. They hayloft is warm enough."

"There's another bed in my room. It used to be my cousin's, but he left for the legions. There's nobody using it now. Silly for you to sleep in the barn when there's a perfectly good bed left empty."

Brendon didn't know what to say.

"I know you like to be able to get away when you want to. I know you don't want to feel trapped. It's the bed next to the window, so you could get out that way if you had to."

"I don't know if I could sleep in a bed," Brendon whispered. "I've never had one of my own."

"You could. It's easy. You just climb in and go to sleep."

"Will the master allow it?" Brendon took a deep breath. "Will your father allow it?"

"Why wouldn't he?"

Brendon didn't have an answer to that question anymore. "I'll try it," he said.

Spencer reached out and placed his hand over Brendon's, rubbing at it to warm his chilled skin. "Good. You'll like it here, Brendon, I promise you. I know things have been bad for you, but not anymore. I swear it."

Brendon didn't see how a boy younger than him could make such a promise but he didn't argue. He simply got up and followed Spencer back to what he realized was now his home.


End file.
